by Leo McNeir
Wrapped in her warmest clothes, she took the torch from its hook in the kitchen and went outside, edging her way along the front of the office barn. She swept the courtyard with the beam and was relieved to see the snow was undisturbed. Crossing to the farmhouse, she carried out the same manoeuvre in the garden, with the same result. There were no footprints around the outbuildings.
Anne turned towards the spinney. Keeping away from the path, she scanned as much as she could see, combing her way through the trees and undergrowth, watching the ground for footprints and any roots that might trip her up.
Anne reached the edge of the trees and suppressed a gasp. Beside the docking area, as close as possible to Sally Ann, was a distinct line of impressions in the snow. Someone had been checking the boat. She switched off the torch and pressed herself tight against a tree. Something was wrong. In the pre-dawn darkness, illuminated only by the snow, she sensed a presence nearby and knew she had given away her position with the torchlight.
Over to her right she could see lights burning on Thyrsis. Someone was in the galley and the shower room was occupied. She was wondering whether to run across and hammer on the door when it happened.
“There’s no trace of an intruder.”
The voice spoke quietly, almost directly into her ear.
“Donovan!” Anne shrieked. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.” She put a hand to her forehead. “I feel faint.”
“Sorry about that. Seems we both had the same idea. You’ve checked round the house?”
“Yes.” She still sounded breathless. “I should’ve guessed it would be you.”
“Can I use the shower?”
“Sure. Breakfast in twenty minutes?”
“Great.”
*
Marnie rang George Stubbs and arranged to see him with Anne at home after the morning church service. Donovan chose to stay behind on Sally Ann, while Ralph worked on Thyrsis.
In its snowy setting, The Old Farm House looked magnificent, and the effect was enhanced by the smell of woodsmoke in the air. Sheila Stubbs showed them into the living room where a log fire was burning in the inglenook and the French windows framed the view out to the frosty, snow-bound garden. When George came in, having changed out of his Sunday suit into a sweater and slacks, Sheila excused herself to return to her kitchen.
“If you have everything you need, I’ll get back to my cooking.” She smiled brightly. “The Aga calls.”
“Are you baking things for Christmas, Mrs Stubbs?” Anne asked, and for a second she had a flashback to another kitchen in Germany.
“Oh, no. I baked my cake and puddings back in October.” Her tone suggested that any later would be an affront to civilisation.
She went out and closed the door behind her. George smiled at Marnie.
“What can I do for you, my dear? Are you better now, after your accident?”
“I’m fine, George, thank you. I’d like to ask you some questions about things that might have happened here during the war.”
“Fire away. I’ll do my best, but I was of course just a nipper.” He sat back, folding his thick hands across his heavy stomach.
“This concerns the body found in Sarah’s grave. We’d like to identify it if at all possible.”
“Understandable. Can’t have spare bodies floating about, can we?”
“Well, no. The thing is, we have reason to believe … did I really say that? Anyway, we do. We think it might have some connection with … there’s no other way to put this, George … with an enemy agent who was run by an officer in Military Intelligence in Berlin.”
George frowned. “You think the body’s some kind of German spy? Or d’you mean it’s someone killed by a spy?”
“We suspect it might be a spy. I know it sounds improbable, and the more I talk about it, the stranger it seems.”
“Marnie, what on earth was a German spy supposed to be doing in Knightly St John?”
Anne said, “I’ve just come back from Germany, Mr Stubbs. I met the daughter of the Intelligence officer. She showed us papers about an agent here in Knightly. In fact, Knightly was his codename.”
“Good lord!” George stood up and went to a side table holding a variety of bottles. “I think I could do with a Scotch. Something for you, Marnie, Anne?”
They declined. George poured himself a measure of whisky, added a splash of soda and returned to his seat.
“Marnie, I don’t see how I can help you with this. I was only nine when the war ended.”
“We believe the agent had connections here, may have been linked in some way with Knightly Court.”
George was shaking his head. “In what way?”
“Can I ask you about the family?”
“The Deveres? Pillars of society.” He spoke with absolute conviction. “Not of the church, of course, being catholics, but otherwise the backbone of the country.”
“What do you know about them?”
George sat upright, as if to make it clear that whatever he said would not alter his judgment of the Deveres.
“There was old Quentin Devere, father of Marcus. I never saw much of him. I believe he had a stroke or something in the war. He was then in his sixties, I think, died around 1958. Had two sons: Marcus, of course, the present owner, and Roland who was killed in the war, as you know.”
“What about their wives?”
“Good God! You’re not suggesting –”
“That’s right, George, I’m not suggesting anything. I’m trying to understand, that’s all.”
“Well, Quentin’s wife was called Beatrice. Don’t know much about her, though I believe she came from a good family. Roland never married. I think I heard he’d been engaged but the woman broke it off. Not sure if I’m right about that.”
“And Marcus?”
“He’s been widowed for some years. Gwen was a marvellous woman, type who organises the whole village, chairman of the parish council, stalwart of the WI. For years she was its county chairman. Very big in the Guides, too.”
“The local squirearchy,” Marnie observed.
“Absolutely, salt of the earth. Everyone looked up to them. You really can’t be serious in suggesting they might have been involved with some enemy agent, Marnie. It’s just too far-fetched for words.”
“George, there was someone here connected with Major Hallgarten. I don’t believe his daughter was lying. She had the actual file on Knightly. Anne saw it in her flat on Friday evening.”
“All right, but if the name’s the only thing you have to go on …” He sipped his whisky, staring into the glass.
“We have a date, too,” Anne said quietly.
“What date?”
“Professor Hallgarten said the agent ceased communication in September 1944. Does that help at all?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned, Anne.” He smiled indulgently. “I was eight years old at that time.”
Marnie realised she had made a mistake. George may have been around during the war, and he may know everything that went on in the village now, but as a child he could only have had the vaguest understanding of what was happening.
She began to get up. “Well, thanks anyway, George. It was good of you to see us.”
George raised a stubby hand.
“I don’t like to send you away empty-handed, fair lady. Let’s just think round this for a moment.” He intertwined the sausage-fingers as if praying for divine inspiration.
Marnie said, “I suppose the man most likely to know what was happening would be old Mr Devere, but he’s –”
George looked horrified. “Marcus Devere? Unthinkable. The man’s a great patriot. Did you know he was chairman of the British Legion in this county for over thirty years? Awarded the CBE for his services.”
“George, I wasn’t suggesting he was involved in anything, just that he would know what was what.”
“Of course, of course. But he’s much too frail to be bothered now, Marnie.”
“I realis
e that.”
“September 1944, you say. I don’t remember much about that time, but I know a man who might.”
George got up and went to the telephone on the bureau. He checked the speed dial and pressed a button. A few moments later he spoke into the receiver.
“Maureen, hallo. It’s George. Is Albert about?” He placed a hand over the mouthpiece while waiting. “My cousin might know.”
“Not too young?” Marnie said.
George shook his head. “In his teens in the war.”
“Not called up?”
“Farming. Reserved occupation. Ah, Albert, I need to ask you some questions … Marnie’s here … Marnie Walker … yes.”
Marnie and Anne listened while George explained about the enemy agent and asked about September 1944. The conversation was punctuated by really? … you sure about that? … when would that’ve been? … good lord, I never knew that … telegrams the same day? … well I never … amazing …
When George replaced the receiver he stood looking at the instrument for several seconds before resuming his seat. He looked across the room at Marnie, his expression puzzled.
“Well, that was strange and no mistake.”
“What was it, George?”
“That September was a sad month for the village. Albert’s older brother, Arthur, came home on leave. It was the last time they saw him. He went back to his unit and a week or so later they heard he was missing in action.”
“Yes, I remember you telling me that, George. That wasn’t what surprised you, was it?”
“No. I told you Arthur worked as a gardener at the Court.”
Marnie nodded. “And old Quentin Devere went personally to tell his parents what had happened. You said.”
“Well, it seems the Deveres had a telegram themselves on the same day, telling them about Roland.”
“Missing in action?” Marnie said.
“Yes. What a horrible coincidence, on top of everything else.”
“Do you think the old man already knew his own son was dead and that was why he went to break the news to your cousin’s family in person?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me, Marnie. They’re that sort of family.”
“You said on top of everything else. What else happened?”
“It was at that time apparently that old Quentin’s butler got a letter telling him his father was dying. Quentin paid for him to go home to see him by train to Greenock. While he was up there, the butler was killed in a bombing raid on the docks.”
“How awful.”
“He’d been Quentin’s batman in the army. Quentin had been a professional soldier. When the first world war broke out, he was too old for active service, but his batman wanted to join up. In 1915 he was badly wounded – shrapnel, I think – and was invalided out. The old man took him back as butler. He was devoted to Quentin and the whole family.”
“A horrible month all round,” Marnie said. “I heard you tell Albert about the agent.”
“Oh, yes. He hadn’t a clue about that, I’m afraid. If there’d been talk of foreign spies or fifth columnists, I’m sure he would have heard about it.”
“Not even a rumour?”
“Not a word, Marnie. Sorry.”
*
When Marnie turned the car round on the drive and George waved them off, Anne noticed that the snow had covered their tyre tracks while they had been inside. It fell in light flurries as Marnie turned cautiously onto the high street.
“At times like this I’m really glad to have the Discovery. Whatever the weather, it gets us home.”
Anne made no comment.
“Anne? You all right?”
“I was just thinking. War is so awful. I mean, look at Knightly. It’s so pretty and peaceful, yet wars have brought it so much tragedy down the ages.”
“You’re not just thinking about the last war, are you?”
“No. Think of all the heartbreak they had here in the Civil War. And we’re still trying to sort out some of the aftermath now, Sarah’s grave and all that.”
“You’re right, Anne. But there were two bodies in that grave, and I can’t help thinking the second one was Major Hallgarten’s agent.”
“Perhaps nobody realised someone killed him because of all the tragedies going on that month.”
Marnie braked early for the turn-off through the field gate.
“I think virtually every month in the war brought its own tragedies, Anne. September 1944 was probably no worse than any other time.”
The car bumped down the field, its four wheel drive system making light of the snow packed on top of the rutted track. A faint glow in the sky revealed where the sun was trying to break through the cloud cover. It lit up the falling snow, illuminating the landscape before them like a Turner painting. For a second, Anne felt as if she could see all the way to Germany.
“We’ve drawn another blank, Marnie. I don’t know what else we can do.” She remembered that summer morning when she had run down the field track to tell Marnie about the body found in Sarah’s grave. “We’re back where we started.”
“But,” Marnie began, “the body in the grave is still a mystery and, don’t forget, someone is trying to cover up what happened.”
*
They arrived back on Sally Ann to find a scene of domesticity in the galley. Ralph was checking something in the oven while Donovan was cutting potatoes for a German-style Kartoffelsalat. Ralph apologised that the quiche was shop-bought, but he had found it in the freezer and thought it was just right for a snowy day. The bottle of Shiraz Cabernet standing on the table looked just right, too, Marnie thought.
Ralph served the quiche with the potato salad and roasted red peppers. Marnie outlined the main points from their meeting with George while pouring the wine. When she reached the end of the story, they began eating. Eventually Ralph spoke.
“So, Donovan, what are your plans?”
“I’d like to stay on for a day or two, if that’s possible.”
“Of course.”
“Is it okay if I sleep on Sally Ann?”
They were all aware that he had not left the boat since their return from Germany.
“You want to keep out of sight,” Ralph said.
“Yes.”
“Do you still think …” Marnie paused. “They’re after you?”
“Not necessarily. For one thing, I’m still pretty sure they don’t know who I am.”
“But they were following you,” Ralph said.
Anne shook her head. “No. They were following me. I led them to Donovan, didn’t I?”
Donovan said nothing. Anne continued.
“They watched me to see where I’d go. Someone must’ve followed me on the train to Watford.”
“But how did they know to follow the Porsche?” Marnie asked. “That was a last minute change of plan.”
“Not difficult for a taxi to follow my old Beetle to Uxbridge. Then they waited around and watched for a car coming out of my street with Anne in it.”
“We did our best to lose them,” Anne said. “But they just had to keep looking out for the Porsche. They didn’t know we’d gone down the Mosel valley, but they knew where we were going. It was just a matter of waiting for us to show up.”
“So, coming back to my question,” Ralph said, “Do you still think it’s important for you to keep out of sight?”
“No point being complacent, but if they’re looking for my Porsche in Germany and it doesn’t show up anywhere, they may conclude that I’m dead.”
“And as they don’t know who you are, anyway …” Marnie grinned.
Donovan permitted himself half a smile. “Being unknown as well as being dead. Not bad cover.”
Chapter 58
Confession
It was still dark on Monday morning when Marnie and Anne opened the office. By the time the postman called soon after eight-thirty, the sky was growing lighter and, looking out, Anne announced that more snow was on the way.
T
he first flakes were falling when the phone rang just after nine.
“Marnie, it’s Angela. I just saw Sheila Stubbs in the shop. She said Anne had come back from a trip to Germany. Listen, I’ve got some news. Can I pop down to see you?”
Anne’s forecast proved to be accurate and a heavy downfall of snow, accompanied by a gusting wind, preceded the arrival of the vicar. When she came into the office she was clutching her hat to keep it from blowing away.
“Blimey!” Marnie exclaimed. “You look like a cross between Orphan Annie and Nanook of the North.”
Angela struggled out of her coat and flopped onto a chair. “My goodness, it’s wild out there. I’ve got the car stuck in a snowdrift, can’t get it out, halfway down the track. Wheels just spin round.”
Marnie hung up the coat and looked through the window. “We’ve got a tow-rope in the Discovery. I’ll try to pull you out. But first, tell us your news.”
Angela took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “I got a letter from the bishop on Saturday. All clear for reburying Sarah. It can go ahead immediately. I’ve ordered a new coffin. Between ourselves, we had a generous donation from Celia Devere to pay for it.”
“So it’s just a matter of waiting for the right conditions?”
“Yes. It should be some time –”
Angela broke off as her mobile began ringing. She apologised and took it out of her bag. When she disconnected, Angela was looking worried.
“Everything all right?”
“Not actually. That was Celia. She was frantic.”
“Really?” Marnie tried not to sound sceptical.
“She’s in town, had a call from Mr Devere’s butler. It seems that, knowing Celia was on her way home, he left Mr Devere sleeping while he went to the chemist’s to collect his prescription.”
“Right.” Marnie was concentrating hard on this. “You mean the old man’s alone in the house?”